


Ghosts

by IrreWilderer



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Violence, cursing, me pretending I could write a spy novel, mentions of Adalind/Nick, some explicit sex scenes which I will make note of, the resistance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-04 00:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16336499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrreWilderer/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: A year following the defeat of Zerstörer, Sean Renard has moved to Switzerland to be near Diana while she attends school. Black Claw is no more, the Resistance and House of Kronenberg have a tenuous alliance, and life is quiet, if not idyllic. Then someone comes seeking revenge for Martin Meisner’s death.It’s a problem easily dispatched: bullet, bodybag, and pay the cleaning bill. But when Meisner appears incorporeally, Renard is strong-armed into helping the spectre move on, as well as his own would-be assassin. Unfortunately, helping them ‘move on’ involves getting caught in the middle of a coup.King Viktor is soon breaking ties with the Laufer. The Laufer have been heavily infiltrated by Verrat agents. Content with his peaceful life, unwilling to risk his daughter’s safety, Renard finds himself between a rock and a hard place. Although that doesn't just mean between Meisner and the bed, he finds himself there, too.





	1. Chapter 1

“In the first days of the springtime

Made you a prince with a thousand enemies

Made a trail of a thousand tears

Made you prisoner inside your own secrecy” - Ladytron

****

_Dear Daddy_ , began the email from Diana.

_I still like it here. I have a new friend Jodie who laughs when I make things fly. Don’t worry—she’s like me. She is 10 years old and her parents live in Lagos, Nigeria. She says she has a pet serval. That’s a kind of cat._

_I had a bad dream last night. Someone is going to hurt you. I know you and mommy told me not to get in the middle of things, but maybe I could come home and make sure you stay safe. I can cook breakfast. They don’t let me make pancakes here—I have to eat the ones they give me._

_My classes are fun. Mdme. Bouvier is nice. Je t'aime, daddy._

Sean Renard read the email again, eyes smiling. There would come a time when his daughter no longer referred to him as that; instead of ‘daddy’, she would turn to epithets such as ‘father’, ‘sir’, or ‘you bastard’ if family tradition was any indicator, but for now she was still very much his little girl: smart, sparkling, blonde, and beautiful.

He gravitated towards Diana’s devotion. Her earnesty; the youthful adoration: it was the rock around which he orbited. Here in Lausanne, Switzerland, there was little else to preoccupy Renard, but that was by design: he’d moved to be near Diana as she attended Collège Champittet. Mansard roofs, mahogany for miles; imposing quoins: no matter how lovely its French-style campus and dormitories, however, he still wasn’t entirely set on the private school for long-term attendance. There was too much catechism _—_ not nearly enough real-world acuity.

On the other hand, the presence of the Catholic Church kept the Royals at bay. Rarely did one organization play in the others’ sandbox: they were large enough institutions that butting heads led to great financial costs. Moreover, their definitions of population control complimented each other. Allies of great convenience, they were not prone to overstepping boundaries. Therefore, Collège Champittet (and Lausanne) served as a charming, secluded security source, complete with the credibility of being a top educational facility. Two birds, one stone; etcetera.

Life was easy. The winds came down from mountains, fresh and clean. On weekends, he took Diana to his ritzy townhouse where they walked the boulevards or fed birds. They baked, they read; they watched cartoons. Renard was amazed by how vulnerable she left him. What she wanted he gave with open palm, but what Diana wanted most was a father who loved her, and, sometimes, Renard felt so humbled that he broke. Other than his mother, no one had ever needed him with a genuine heart. And it was very good to be needed.

Of course, when Diana was away, he found ways to pass the time, too. Quiet things; instances and situations which required burner phones and dead drops. Less honest than the hours spent with his daughter, they were nonetheless a necessity.

Beginning to read the email once more, Renard’s phone rang.

The screen indicated Adalind Schade was calling.

Renard’s brow twitched.

“A little late for a social call,” he quickly commented, noting the Monday morning sun cascading through the curtains. 8 AM in Switzerland meant it was 11 PM in Portland. “Everything alright?”

“I, uh… I don’t know,” Adalind answered with lengthy hesitance, her tone suggesting she paced the floor. “I just got an email from Diana, and _—”_

“Yes, I got one as well,” confirmed Renard. “Did she tell you she’s making friends?”

He knew Adalind. He knew his daughter’s mother would be glowing while she pictured their perfectly happy child cultivating playmates. Of course, knowing Adalind as he did, he also realized her rounded eyes and broad grin would soon be overcome.

“Jodie?” she asked dismissively. “Yeah, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

Renard sat back at his desk. It was hard to take these things seriously considering he’d nearly been present for the apocalypse last year. “When am I **not** in danger, Adalind? While I appreciate your concern, and the concern of our daughter, I’ve had a lifetime to make enemies, and by no means have I wasted any opportunities. As I’m sure you’d be happy to remind me.”

“The whole point of you moving to Switzerland was to _avoid_ getting into trouble,” Adalind reminded wryly.

“The point of moving to Switzerland was to be near Diana. And, as we know, where Diana goes, danger follows.” Renard’s chest rose proudly. “Not that she can’t handle herself.”

There was a pause.

“I’m grateful that you went with her. You know that. But sometimes I wonder…”

The woman had a lovely way of side-stepping out-right accusation; of selling her point with sweet recriminations. Nonetheless, Renard wasn’t buying.

“What?”

“You can practically **see** Kronenberg castle from your house.”

“Is this you talking, or Nick?” Renard asked.

“I mean, Nick is worried , obviously _—_ he sees Diana as his daughter, too. But this is coming from me. This has nothing to do with Nick. Although things were… _tense_ last year, time has passed. We’ve all moved on.” The cool, smooth tone rippled with heartfelt warmth. “Do you think I’d have let you take my daughter if I didn’t trust you? I’m concerned for your safety because it’s **you** , Sean. You mean the world to Diana. Which means _I_ don’t want anything to happen to you, either.”

It was a duplicitous affection. Without Diana, Renard would be just another backstabbing Judas in Adalind’s books.

“And it won’t,” he coolly assured her. “Viktor is aware of my politics, in that I have none. I have no aims for the throne. And he knows better than to make a move on Diana, whether to woo her or otherwise.”

Three seconds of shocked silence passed. “Have you _talked_ to him?” Adalind asked incredulously.

“I was contacted by his agents, yes.”

Renard spoke again when Adalind _—_ clearly slack-jawed _—_ failed to. “Don’t worry. Viktor still has Resistance support. It’s tenuous, but this branch of the family has never been less dangerous.” He added, as an afterthought, “for me, anyways.”

Adalind’s mind was working audibly: turning, twisting; churning out the cat-like curiosity.

“So… are you involved with the Laufer, then?” she purred.

Renard shrugged. “More or less. Heavy on the ‘less’.”

“Well, either way, Diana is reaching out to both of us, so that means she’s scared. Watch your back.”

“I will. Get some rest. Oh, and Adalind…”

He swallowed. _Hard_. There hung a full, heavy silence between them. It was at times like these that they considered the varying torments and betrayals flung at one other like fuel and fire over the years. Each had ruined the other’s life at some point. Manipulation, mind-games; magic: in a simple world they'd easily see the other as an enemy, and neither of them suffered insult lightly thanks to their heritage.

The world, though, _wasn’t_ simple. Renard was intimately acquainted with the brokering and breaking of trusts and truces. His relationship with Adalind was secured by the life of his daughter, and, as nothing was more precious to him, so too was his fresh friendship with Adalind. It made him feel almost tender towards her.

He chalked it up to nostalgia.

“I was wondering,” Renard admitted at last, “have you given any thought to sending Kelly abroad for school?”

“ _Kelly_?” Adalind choked on her son’s name. “Of course I’d love for him and Diana to be together! But Nick… I’m not sure he’d go for it. Why?”

“The same reason you mentioned. I think it would be good for Diana to have her brother near. I know she’d appreciate it _—_ she talks about him constantly.”

He could hear Adalind’s mouth opening and closing with arguments for and against. “Kelly is hardly three as it is,” she answered at length.

Renard smiled. “I know. Discuss it with Nick. Have a good night, Adalind.”

“Thanks. And be careful, Sean.”

He terminated the call.

He reread his daughter’s email.

He pocketed his phone, and moved towards the bedroom.

As one of the larger rooms in the townhouse, it was home to strange couplings. Pillow-forts and power-plays; reading with Diana, and rereading Resistance telephone call transcripts: to say nothing of the at-odds decor _—_ modernist art matched with ancient tapestries _—_ Renard’s bedroom saw the good and (arguably) bad of him. He conducted business here; made deals. Or, at least, kept abreast of deals going on. He **was,** in fact, attempting to stay out of trouble, as Adalind put it.

It was in the bedroom that he’d spoken with Viktor’s agents. He’d have preferred meeting with them in the tastefully appointed reception room, of course, and during daylight hours, but he hadn’t had a choice.

_“He knows you’re in the country,” said one of two men in a thick, local accent a few moments after attacks were traded. Renard, asleep, had woken to steps in the hall. Grabbing the gun from beneath his pillow, he still would’ve been too late had murder been on their minds._

_“And I know you’re here,” sniped Renard, wiping at a bloody lip. “Want to tell me why I’m not gunning down two home-invaders?”_

_“The King would like to extend an invitation at your convenience. He’s feeling very close to family now, and wonders if you wouldn’t prefer the castle to these… accommodations.”_

_Renard took that for what it was. Feeling close to family meant he wasn’t feeling particularly close to anyone else. It supported the circulating rumors that Viktor was planning to cut ties with the Resistance, but he required more internal security to make that transaction a smooth one._ _Renard, with numerous contacts and understanding of Laufer protocol, would make a valuable asset to the king._

 _“You can tell my cousin I’ll have to decline for now.” Renard squared his jaw. “And you can show yourselves the hell_ _out.”_

Recalling the incident, mourning old furniture lost in the scuffle, he ruminated on new porcelain pieces out of Jingdezhen. It was good that his guest-of-three-times mother liked to redecorate. Silver urns to be filled with specific flowers; silks and crystals and nautical curios (for that ‘manly touch’): she’d made an art of rebuilding from chaos. Hence why his childhood had been so picturque.

Renard’s cell rang again. The screen read _Bratland_. His brow tensed suspiciously.

Bratland wasn’t supposed to call until Friday.

“Yeah,” he answered shortly, staring down his reflection in a mirror.

“Did you kill Meisner?”

He blinked. The voice wasn’t Bratland’s _—_ it was a woman’s.

Quickly regrouping, Renard coyly parried with, “did you kill Bratland?”

“No. He’s probably having his breakfast right now. Missing his phone, of course, although maybe not terribly. So. Did you do it?”

 _Female_ , he noted, describing the voice to himself as an author would for later reference. _American accent, but my guess is it’s a cover. Something about the way she speaks: it’s stiff; uncomfortable. Impossible to gauge age, but she can’t be much younger than I am._

“If you tell me why the Resistance is suddenly interested in what happened to Meisner, I’ll give you an answer.”

As far as Renard figured, it was old news that Meisner had met his demise because of Black Claw interests, which, as the Laufer was _absolutely_ aware, Renard had been involved in. Obviously he’d faced questions (albeit politely when his contact met him for coffee and a croissant), and, just as obviously, he’d avoided an out-right confession.

Either way, betrayal was by-and-large a currency in their trade, and Meisner’s death wasn’t worth too much in the current climate. Even if the Resistance **had** felt double-crossed or compromised, the king’s cousin as an ally was too important.

The woman answered drolly. “You know how it is: someone found a blank spot in our records and figured we should follow-up. That’s bureaucracy for you.”

Renard prefered honesty, however antagonistic, over sarcastic evasion. And the Resistance wasn’t prone to playing games.

“Who is this?” he asked hotly.

The caller hung up.

Nostrils flaring, Renard wondered on how worried to be. This sudden enthusiasm for his past follies suggested that not only was Viktor consolidating influence, but the Resistance was as well. They appeared to be checking in; gauging his weather-like loyalty that changed with the wind. Neither party had ever truly appreciated that he wasn’t much for sides other than his own; that this kept him the sort of survivor that wrote history rather than get drowned in it.

Renard pocketed his cellphone.

He looked himself over in the mirror.

He shrugged.

The morning air was warming. It worked across the waving curtains in a way that always enchanted Diana. Chaffinches sang outside his window; he heard the chime of a bicycle bell. Renard began unbuttoning his shirt to change, coffee presently sorely needed. He’d decided to walk to a nearby cafe. The cryptic call convinced him to get out for a while.

He turned to his closet for a sweater. Finishing with the buttons, and about to take the long-sleeved silk blend off, an arm was thrown around his neck in a solid choke-hold. Gagging, Renard kicked out, causing a side table to lose its collection of decorative, glass trinkets. They cracked and broke on the floor.

His mother would apparently be redecorating again.

“Son of a _—_ ”

Whoever was on him was **_on_ ** him _—_ arm flung around his throat and clinging tight. Renard tried to over-power them, but he couldn’t dislodge their grip as his attacker utilized their full weight to pull back, putting all strength into crushing his windpipe. Eyesight dimming, Renard realized it was working. Blood rushed to his face. Spit moistened his lips and chin.

Over the initial shock and oxygen-desperate, Renard backed up, crashing both of them into the bed. Bouncing off the mattress, careening to the floor, he heard a surprised cry and the crack of wooden furniture. His eyesight steadied and adrenaline coursed. Clambering to his feet, Renard noted that the assailant stood between him and the bed, which meant the 9mm beneath the pillow was momentarily out of reach. But, as he also noted, the home-invader bore only a sheathed machete.

“Was it something I said?” Renard asked gruffly, touching the sore and strained skin of his neck. He wiped the spit from his mouth.

“ _What?_ ”

Renard looked her over. Short, stocky; brunette: she reminded him a lot of the man in question. _Meisner_. Much like him, she appeared youthful at a glance, but under scrutiny the years piled up in lines under her eyes and around her mouth.

“It **was** you who called, wasn’t it?” he needled. “I’m assuming I said something to upset you.”

The woman glowered. “It wasn’t something you _said_ , you bastard.”

She rushed forward, baiting him to throw the first blow which she deflected perfectly. Renard knew he was rusty _—_ he blamed his year-long vacation from sparring situations for the first fist-to-the-face he earned. Working forward with arms swinging hard at the left and right, the amount of successful shots she managed was frustrating, but the man held his own. As long as he didn’t allow her fluid mobility to outshine his greater strength, it would be Renard landing the ribs-bruising strikes soon enough.

He punched; she parried. She ducked, stepped hard on his ankle, and he grazed her temple. When Renard smashed an elbow at her eye socket, she cried out. When the woman slammed his nose with an open palm, he figured he’d be seeing a doctor.

Parting to catch their breaths, Renard tried to get her talking.

“Has Bratland’s phone been returned yet? Or did you actually kill him?”

The woman was doubled over, too, hands on her knees. She stared at him.

“He’ll get it back. Don’t worry. I’m not a murderer.”

If not livid, Renard might’ve chuckled. “And what do you call this?”

His taunt had a predictable answer. And she, predictably ire-driven, was completely obliging.

“Justice,” she growled.

But as she moved for him, he was ready. He caught the swooping jaw-destined strike. With his other hand, he punched her square in the stomach. Air whooshed from her lungs; she wrenched back, but he wouldn’t give. Another swing, this time to her cheek, and she fell at his feet, which left Renard standing triumphantly.

“You know,” he pointed out smugly, “back in Portland, I was the captain of a police precinct. So I know a thing or two about justice. And this…” Shaking his head, his brow knitted. “Actually, this isn’t too far off.”

The assailant kicked, knocking his feet out from under him. He slammed backwards on the floor.

By now, blood spotted the plush, Berber carpeting. An armoire was smashed; so were two nightstands. And Renard was getting tired. The woman appeared to prefer pummelling to sharing a conversation, which aggravated greatly. Renard wouldn’t have minded copping to Meisner’s death; a good, honest talk about their relationship might’ve done him good, and, if Renard was being completely transparent, an apology may have slipped out. He mourned the loss of Meisner: as a friend, as a confidant; as a tool, comrade, and more.

He also mourned that part of his life. Diana had been used as a pawn; he’d been forced to submit to Black Claw’s plans, despite that he soon embraced them. Although it wasn’t about a stranger’s forgiveness, Renard had a few sorries saved up, and now seemed a good time to air them.

The man was not, however, about to let his attacker exact petty revenge. Woging, Renard used the adrenaline rush to toss her off as she pounced. He made for the bed, grabbed his gun, and leveled it while she sat on her knees stilled out of surprise.

Her eyes were a bit like Meisner’s. Tired; hard. And somewhat worthy of mercy.

“I’m done,” Renard proclaimed, observing her shocked expression soak-up reality. His own face returned to normal. “I’m sorry Meisner is dead, but I’m not going to let you succeed in your little revenge-fantasy, either. You can leave, or I can shoot you. It’s your choice.”

He had given her that _—_ the ability to walk away. It’d been to his own edification, as it turned out. She forced a brave facade, and Renard knew she wasn’t going to be leaving in anything other than a body bag.

Easing the safety off, he began preemptively grousing over the cleaning bill.

“Wait!”

A new set of shoes scuffed over thick carpeting. The woman didn’t react, but Renard did. His heart hammered in his throat. Looking to the right, he had to do a double-take to make certain of what he saw.

“ _Don’t_.” A head shorter, wide shoulders; fierce stare: the ghost of Martin Meisner pled without begging. “Don’t shoot her, Sean. Please. Spare her life.”

Brow bending under the pressure of fantastic annoyance, Renard huffed.

 _‘You_ **_have_ ** _to be kidding me.’_


	2. Chapter 2

Renard's finger, gingerly resting on the trigger, was cramping.

Meisner stood at his side. “Danke."

The kneeling woman exhaled anxiously. “What are you waiting for?”

It was the kind of loaded question which only slightly outweighed the heft of his weapon. Renard had reasons to shoot for sure, and they collected uncomfortably in his stomach.

_If I don’t end this, Diana will be without a father. She would be without my protection. Powerful as she is, she is still a child._

_Adalind would… well, she’d attend the funeral._

_And I suppose mother would be devastated._

Italian linens ruined by blood spots; a tortoise-shell box broken and bereft of the cufflinks kept inside as they now cluttered the floor: the room was a _mess_. Renard was reminded of his daughter who liked to hide behind the currently-cracked French doors to his closet, jump out, and giggle profusely. He would chuckle, tussle her hair, and smooth it back into place while beaming with soul-consuming happiness.

Renard thought of his daughter and his trigger-finger tightened.

“I don’t know,” he said, teeth clenched. “Why **am** I waiting?”

“She came here because of me,” answered Meisner. “I’d rather not have her death on my hands.”

Renard shuttered on hearing his voice. That accent which had tried so hard to soften as the man traveled the world sent ice through his spine.

Obviously his attacker couldn’t know the question was aimed at her ghostly source of resentment. She answered in a spat, “I don’t even **want** to know,” insinuating something terrible as being the reason Renard hadn’t fired.

It was maddening. By either definition. Meisner made him crazy the previous year to anyone watching. Renard monologued out loud at length; flung objects around his office, as well as the halls and Portland’s streets. Never knowing when he might receive a ‘visit’ led to sleeplessness, which manifested in exciting ways: crankiness; profuse sweating. Mismatched socks.

Today, it simply pissed him off. There was no reason for spectral intervention. Renard was defending himself, and he wasn’t going to let a ghost’s guilt bury him six feet under.

“Get out,” he ordered.

Meisner; his almost murderer: he wasn’t picky about who listened.

“Go? I don’t think so.” Still on her knees, the woman shook her head. “I didn’t come here just to make Bratland mad by taking his phone and attacking his Royal contact. He might not look like it, but he can throw down.”

“So that’s how this ends?” Renard’s lip curled distastefully. “One of our deaths? There’s no alternative; no peaceful solution?”

“There’s **nothing** you could do that would make this right!” she growled.

Meisner stepped closer. With him came echoes of aftershave and vetiver. “Ask her if it’s worth it. Ask her if this revenge was worth turning against the Resistance.”

Nothing about his reactions shed light on who she was. Underling, fangirl; partner. Meisner being the professional deadpan he was, Renard wasn’t likely to read his expression unless the ghost wanted it.

“Sounds to me,” Renard said, complying with his instructions, “like you’re going against Resistance orders if Bratland is in the dark about this. How’s that working out for you? Betraying them? Was it worth it?”

“It could’ve been a good death,” she shrugged.

Meisner’s broad arms hung limp at his sides, and his thin, curving lips stilled. The lack of reaction suggested fear.

“Yours, or hers?” Meisner wondered.

Renard looked back at the woman. “Whose death? Mine, or yours?”

She was quiet.

He hadn’t suspected it until now, but it was highly possible that this Resistance renegade might’ve been after more than Renard’s life. There were always people trying to prove something with a suicide mission. Names went down in history; martyrdom was _especially_ attractive.

Meisner had been a bigwig among the Laufer, despite his status as a free agent. Avenging him would’ve made waves. Although Renard was important, there were undoubtedly others who’d taken his betrayal personally.

“What _were_ you two?” Renard pressed, looking between Meisner and the woman. “Siblings? Comrades? Mentor and apprentice _—_ what?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Why not the obvious one, smart guy?”

_Ah_.

It made as much sense as Renard’s aversion to _that_ as a possibility. What with the half-dozen times he and Meisner had slept together, he’d assumed the man to be single. But here was his vengeful paramour, her broken heart itching to scratch him out.

It wasn’t exactly satisfying. The Resistance was supposed to be about more: honor, self-worth, sacrifice, and that often-lauded _Greater Good_ . It didn’t fit with what Renard supposed of the Laufer or its agents. It didn’t fit with what he expected of Meisner, or anyone associated with him. Love was common. It had been _far_ too common for them. Love had been no concern of theirs in the dusty beds of safe houses, or down dark, wet alleys. Love had never crossed his mind _—_ just _want, need,_ and _no regrets_.

_No regrets_ , mused Renard wistfully with sour undertones.

He glanced at Meisner. The ghost shrugged.

“Lovers, then,” Renard affirmed, brow raising. “Lovers working for the Resistance. I’m sure Meisner would appreciate your disregard of protocol because emotions got the better of you.”

“I’m not exactly ‘with’ the Resistance anymore. Haven’t been for months.”

Meisner started forward. His wide-set, bird-like eyes were as expressive as they ever got.

“ _What?_ ”

“Why not?” Renard asked before Meisner told him to.

“B _—_ ” The woman’s jaw slackened distraughtly. “Because we might as well be a branch of the Verrat! The way we’ve been… _working_ for the king: it’s **sick** . Our orders are overseen by him; Tavitian is missing _—”_

“Missing?” Renard repeated.

“Yeah. _Missing_.” Although offering info was a trade faux pas, the agent’s broken faith had burned her perseverance to cinders and given her the gift of gab. “A couple of months ago, seven of our sympathizers _—_ disused safehouse providers, and ammo runners _—plus_ their families were murdered. It wasn’t a coincidence. The Verrat had to get their names from **us**. From older members who remembered them.”

“Tavitian may be in hiding,” Renard offered pragmatically. At long last, he lowered his gun.

The woman did not rise to her feet. Nor did she recover her previous nerve. “Maybe. If there’s ever going to be a chance we recover from this, there has to… **_He_ ** has to…”

She fell quiet. Renard’s mind raced. Tavitian’s situation had been unknown to him. It was years since he spoke with the enigmatic merger of the southern cells, and this silence was suspicious. Tavitian was convinced of power-consolidation; that one large front was more effectual than smaller guerilla tactics (which, for example, Meisner preferred). Taking into account Viktor’s current push for the same thing, it was troubling. Had he taken Tavitian’s advice, only to neutralize him after? Would Tavitian even work with Viktor?

“You know I oppose the king, don’t you?” Renard asked.

“I know you’re a Royal, and I know Meisner is dead because of you.” The woman stood. “Opposing the king doesn’t make those things less true.”

Renard squared his jaw. “I worked with the Resistance for years! Before it became corrupt! My life was on the line, but I also believed in what they stood for. The Families’ tradition of power and abuse must come to an end.”

“You were made an American mayor by a group that wanted a wesen-controlled world!” she exploded. “They coordinated attacks on innocent people; killed **_our_ ** agents any chance they got. And they killed Meisner’s people. Your Black Claw didn’t like the Royals, but they didn’t like us, either.” She took a shaky step closer, causing Renard to aim the gun again. “If you’re the only one who opposes the Royals now,” she seethed, “we’re _fucked_.”

Renard had forgotten about Meisner. Gradually, the ghost moved to be near the woman, hands in his pockets. He looked like he would’ve reached out to her if he could. Although Meisner often frowned, the one he bore now was pretty poignant.

“Why are you really here?” Renard wondered. The question was chosen carefully so that both could answer. He no longer wanted to kill the woman, if he could manage it. Those loyal to the old Laufer regime would soon be valuable should the rumours prove right, which meant she’d be worth something. And Meisner?

“The first time I was here,” the spectre offered, “it was to help you. Get you back on track. Now, I suppose, I have her to help.”

Ignorant of Meisner’s answer, the woman said, exhaustedly, “I’m here to avenge a good man.”

He didn’t buy it. If it was true, one of them would be dead by now. Renard ran his tongue across his teeth. “And how am I supposed to help with that?”

The woman laughed. “Help? Really? I mean, you have the gun there. You could just…” Imitating a pistol with her fingers, she pressed them to her temple. “ _Pop, pop!”_

“Tell her you can help her find new purpose,” Meisner instructed.

And Renard did.

Renewed resentment cracked the air. She looked at him with such disgust that he had to take it personally. It was the same face anyone made when they saw him woge for the first time; when they saw his patches of grey, decayed skin, and yellowed, broken teeth.

“You’re goddamn _kidding!_ ” she yelled. “You’re saying you’re not like your family while speaking **exactly** as they do? You’re like every other Royal: trying to buy support and turn us into puppets. You might be a bastard Royal, but you’re still part of them. I’ve spent enough time under the thumb of you people. Help me ‘find a new purpose’? _Verpiss dich!_ ”

Meisner sighed.

“When we found her,” he said, gaze greying dismally as he watched her rankle, “she was angry. Locked in a gulag; struggling. She wanted to make all Royals pay, but not for herself only. For others; those who can’t defend themselves. She was angry but single-minded. Very useful.”

Renard’s point of reconciliation would be moot with his pistol preoccupying the space between them, so he lowered his hand once more.

“You’re angry. I understand.” Renard carefully spoke without condescension. He took a confident step forward. “But don’t let that get in the way _._ Use it. Against my family; on the side of the Resistance. A shift is coming. Allegiances are changing, and you can be sure King Viktor will be cleaning house. The innocent who cannot fight for themselves will get hurt if you do nothing. Families; _children_.”

It was a bit thick, but Renard was blessed with charisma that rarely failed. As it turned out, Meisner’s information was accurate, for the woman became transparent. Bile and blame washed from her expression as she crept over the truth. Her brow bent. Her lips ran soundlessly over the statement.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” she sadly wondered. “Why are you... doing _this_?”

“Call it self-preservation,” Renard shrugged. “Call it a favor for an old friend. Either way, I won’t have peace until you’ve moved on.” He nodded towards the door. “The bathroom is down the hall on the right. Feel free to clean up.”

He expected she’d comply. He hoped she’d leave the house and not come back. It was his expectations, however, that were met. After all, when had anything he’d ever hoped for come true?

The shower began running shortly after she’d exited the ruined, smashed-to-smithereens bedroom. Meisner was mildly smirking.

“Won’t have peace, huh? I’m not so bad. Am I?”

“You are, actually,” Renard replied, placing the pistol on a bedside table. He busied with buttoning his shirt and tucking it in. “Now, tell me how to get rid of her. And you.”

Meisner meandering over with a sly eye-gleam. Even at the worst of times he sounded nonchalant _—_ as though he could meet any challenge and bring it to heel. Given that death hadn’t stopped his hanging around, perhaps it was something he’d earned.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” promised Meisner. “Rebuild the Resistance. Find out who has been bought, and who hasn’t. Reorganize the groups before your cousin decides to kill everyone.” He shrugged. “Might help.”

It was more of a slap than suggestion. Renard snorted.

“And bring the wrath of the Family down on my daughter? You think I’ll risk that for you? Or for someone who just tried to kill me?”

“Do it right,” Meisner pointed-out indifferently, “and the family will never even know.”

The suggestion was staggering in breadth and scope. It would require scheming against King Viktor _—_ a task not exactly new, or inordinately difficult _,_ but it would also mean working against the local incarnation of the Laufer. They were an arm of the Kronenberg Royals, regardless of how they saw the situation. Tavitian’s long-ago merger of the various groups and cells was proving to be nearly their undoing: with less leaders, their leash was easier to control.

None of Renard’s contacts could be entirely trusted. He had no one on the inside, and on the outside he had Diana to worry about. It was crucial to keep her from the family’s clutches, yet as soon as there was even an inkling of suspicion cast his way, her well-being would be in jeopardy.

The balancing act of carving a new path through the Laufer while protecting his daughter seemed, at both glance and lengthy inspection, impossible.

On the other hand, he’d done harder work before. He’d given Diana to the Resistance for safekeeping long ago. He’d pretended to be engaged to Adalind, and that had been _particularly_ arduous.

“Alright,” Renard agreed at length. Wariness dripped honey-like from his words _—_ suspicion over what he’d need do, and who he’d need kill _._ But excitement wrinkled his brow nonetheless. It had been a long time since he’d seen subterfuge. It was hard not to miss something that had raised him as much as his mother. “How?” he asked, eye twinkling.


End file.
